Michele Lomax
Editor
The Truth
is in the
Cards
By Heather Reid
t’s that magical
time of year when
mailboxes are
stuffed with catalogs and sale postcards. But tucked somewhere in all of
that direct mail, I always
hope to find a festive
holiday note or two. I
know they have a
terrible reputation,
but I honestly love
Christmas cards.
I enjoy receiving
pictures of my friends
and family, especially
those with kids. Sometimes cards are simply photos, and that’s fine. For me, the ideal card includes an actual paragraph or two of information about the family’s adventures and activities. I save these cards throughout the whole month, posting them on a special cardholder. It makes me feel close to so many people I don’t see often or even haven’t seen in years.
those with kids. Sometimes cards are simply photos, and that’s fine. For me, the ideal card includes an actual paragraph or two of information about the family’s adventures and activities.
somewhere in all of that direct mail, I always hope to find a festive holiday note or two. I know they have a terrible reputation, but I honestly love Christmas cards.
I enjoy receiving pictures of my friends and family, especially those with kids. Sometimes cards are simply photos, and that’s fine. For me, the ideal card includes an actual paragraph or two of information about the family’s adventures and activities. I save these cards throughout the whole month, posting them on a special cardholder. It makes me feel close to so many people I don’t see often or even haven’t seen in years.
two of information about the family’s adventures and activities. I save these cards throughout the whole month, posting them on a special cardholder. It makes me feel close to so many people I don’t
see often or even haven’t
seen in years.
Sure, some go
overboard. My
parents used to get a
letter that was literally
pages and pages long.
It was a work of …
perhaps not art, but certainly something to behold. It included excruciatingly detailed accounts of airport pickups, intricate craft store lists and projects, and gruesome reports of illnesses, births, marriages, divorces, and deaths. When I was home for Christmas, I’d sit at the kitchen counter, and my mother and I would drink red wine and read sections of this tomb out loud to each other. Nobody needs to know that.
I